


from way up there (you and i, you and i)

by giucorreias



Series: flufftober 2018 [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Developing Relationship, Fluff without Plot, Flufftober 2018, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-07-24 06:07:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16168568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giucorreias/pseuds/giucorreias
Summary: Sometimes love can be sweet.





	1. Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Hoi! This is for [Flufftober](http://giucorreias.tumblr.com/post/178632259369/so-i-was-looking-around-and-noticed-there-were-a), a fluff writing challenge for the month of October :). I couldn't make myself choose a single ship to focus my efforts on, so I decided to write for two, which means I'll only have chapters here every other day.
> 
> Anyway! Today's fluffy ficlet is for the second day of the challenge, themed " _flowers_ ". It ended up more "plants" than "flowers" but no one cares, right? sdafhdas

It takes a while for Bruce to feel comfortable enough to start decorating the floor Tony gave him—it takes a while for him to believe this is something he gets to keep. 

It starts with a cactus on the windowsill, in the kitchen—a small, unobtrusive thing he often forgets to water, that for all intents and purposes seems to have been carelessly put on a place it will get enough sun and nothing else, a decoration to blend into the background and eventually be forgotten.

No one notices it.

Or, perhaps more accurately, no one realizes the importance of its presence with the exception of Tony Stark, who trails off in the middle of a sentence the first time he looks at it, and then smiles whenever he’s in Bruce’s kitchen and the little plant remains on the exact same place, thriving.

  
  


It doesn’t stop there.

It is a fact that Bruce likes plants, in general. They’re alive and their presence is calming, they make the place he’s living in seem a bit more like a home, everyday. He gets himself a little herb garden, for his tea. Then a pot with sunflowers, for the accent color. Then a little bonsai, for the memories.

He leaves, one day, for a biology convention that lasts a full week. When he comes back, there’s a pot of pink camellias on his doorstep, over the welcoming mat. A pot of pink camellias, and nothing else—no note. Bruce doesn’t need a note to know they’re from Tony, a subtle way to show him he’s been missed.

As he doesn’t protest—since he keeps the flowers; since he waters them and cares for them and chooses special little places to leave them on that lets him look at them on the bad days and remember he has… friends?—it doesn’t take too long for his apartment to be riddled with more plants than he can keep up with.

He’s not complaining.

  
  


Tony builds him a robot that waters them, anyway.


	2. key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony moves in, more or less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this chapter like, 5 times, before I was satisfied with it. Well, to a degree of satisfied. I don't really like it, the way it turned out, but I'm not willing to keep working on it, nor am I willing to fail the challenge, so it will have to do. I hope you guys like it, anyway. Sorry about this.
> 
> Today's prompt was " _key_ " and it was harder than it had any right to be.

Of all things to start with, it starts with a mug: Bruce pads into his kitchen, one morning, takes a random one out of his cupboard and realizes, blearily, it isn’t one of his—all of his mugs are either white, simple, or with biology jokes on them (gifts he never threw away, remnants of another life). This one’s all sleek and black, fancy. It says _ ask me about my iron armor _ . It has Tony all over it.

He smiles, softly, puts the mug back on the cupboard, and takes out another one. 

Later, after he’s done eating and washing the dishes, once he sits down next to his begonias to read the latest issue of a scientific journal, it occurs to him that it’s weird he didn’t find it at all strange to find Tony’s mug on his cupboard.

Then it’s like, suddenly, Tony’s things are everywhere. His sunglasses forgotten over the coffee table. His phone’s charger on the outlet next to the bonsai. A notebook with the plans for a new repulsor, pencil still inside. His tie under the cushions of the sofa: wherever he looks there’s a little reminder of Tony’s presence on his life—on his home.

  
  
  


“Doesn’t it bother you?” Bruce asks Natasha at one point, just as she hands him the coat he forgot at her place not twenty minutes before. She likes having her things organized, apparently. It bothers her when people leave their things on her space. “That Tony’s always leaving his things everywhere.”

“No, Bruce,” she answers. Months later and it’s still so hard to read her face. He thinks she’s frowning. Maybe. “He’s never left anything of his on my floor.”

“Weird,” Bruce tells her. “It’s impossible to go anywhere on my place without stumbling upon one of his belongings.” He almost expects it at any given moment for Tony to sleaze into his living room, taking off his tie and messing up his own hair, then throw himself on the sofa, making himself comfortable.

More often than not, that is exactly what happens. They drink expensive coffee and argue science, politics, movies. Or… anything, really. There isn’t a shortage of things they have in common.

“Is it?” Natasha asks. “Really weird.”

Bruce thinks about it. Then shakes his head.

  
  
  


They’re watching a movie together. It’s a romantic comedy Bruce didn’t actually bother to check the name, something new and trashy and cliche. Neither of them like action or suspense movies, very much—they already have enough of it in real life—, and they have enough of a similar sense of humor that they find it funny to watch stupid movies and then when they’re done, discuss them very seriously.

The main character has just forgiven her significant other for a slight he didn’t really commit, courtesy of his mother, that didn’t want them together. 

There’s a lull on the plot—could you call that a plot?—, and Bruce takes advantage of that to fish something from out of his pocket, the metal cool against the palm hand. He waits until Tony looks at him, eyebrows raised, to offer it.

“What’s that?”

“Since you’ve basically moved in,” he says, a non-answer. He dangles the object—keys to his front door—on his fingers, before depositing them on Tony’s open hand. “I know you own the building and everything, but consider it symbolic. An open invitation.”

Tony gapes. On the screen, the romantic interest kisses the main character as the mother yells on the background that she’ll be back (is there a movie 2? God, he hopes not). There’s a cute, catchy song playing, that Bruce thinks is vaguely familiar, he might have heard it on the radio.

“Bruce.” Tony says. There’s something like reverence on his voice. Bruce doesn’t really get it, at first, because it was supposed to be a joke, really, something to let Tony know that half of his apartment, give or take, is built over Tony’s belongings. 

That Bruce doesn’t mind, that.

But now, though, with the credits rolling on the television and Tony’s big, bambi eyes fixed on his face with awe, he thinks maybe he didn’t mean it as a joke.

“You helped turn this place into my home,” he says. “I- It’s only fair that I welcome you to it.”

  
  
  


Tony’s smile could light up the whole city, for a whole year.


	3. gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is gifted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this isn't exactly _fluffy _fluffy, but I liked how it turned out so it stays adsfbasdnf. Hope you guys like it!__
> 
> __Today's prompt was "gift". I used it as I saw fit :p_ _

Tony has already lost count of the times people have told him he is  _ gifted _ . He is crazy smart—he went to MIT at fourteen, graduated before everyone else that got in at the same time—, he looks really handsome—he’s had more casual relationships than anyone else you might ever meet, a string of broken-hearted supermodels running after him. He’s been considered the sexiest man alive, twice. He is rich, richer than he has any right to be—a billionaire—, and he never had to work for any of his money for a day on his life.

On the bad days, Tony finds it hard to agree. He looks at the arc reactor on his ribcage, the scars down his chest, and refuses to take off his shirt for any reason, even taking a shower. He thinks back on his parents, killed before he had a real chance to work on their relationship, make it better, and locks himself down his lab, refusing to leave for anyone. He remembers his time on MIT, a teen among a sea of young adults, alone but for the presence of his only friend, and feels Rhodey’s absence keenly.

But then there are days in which he sits down on the tower’s common floor, the Avengers reunited around him, talking about nothing at all or everything at the same time. Days in which Rhodey comes to visit, flies from wherever he is stationed, and they go to dinner and reminisce about the good old days of their youth, the crazy things they tried together, when things were easier and the world, safer. 

Nights in which he’s watching a movie with Bruce, something stupid that doesn’t require any brain power, and Bruce falls asleep with his head supported on Tony’s shoulder, brown curls falling down his face, mouth slightly opened. (Late) nights in which they lock themselves on a lab and talk nothing but science for  _ hours _ , minds alight and blood pumping, creativity and innovation on their fingertips, the power to change the world for the better nestled on the warmth of their hands. 

On those days and (late) nights—those  _ good  _ days and (late) nights—Tony has to admit that he recognizes the truth in the statement; that, yes, he really  _ is _ gifted, even if people tend to be sorely mistaken about the reasons for that.

 

(it’s less about the stupid things decided by fate or some other big deity before he was born and more about the things he fought for and achieved during his lifetime—it’s less about the money and the way he looks and more about the people he loves. 

_ They _ are the real gifts.

Tony thinks, sometimes, that if he didn’t have any of what he has, if he wasn’t smart or a billionaire or a Stark, and still, if he had everyone, he’d be happy anyway) 


	4. stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parties aren't really Bruce's scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow, I'm really late. But this one is bigger than the others, almost 1k, so I think it's a little acceptable :p I'm unsure if I'll be able to finish all of this month's prompts, but I'll keep writing them as I go I guess. 
> 
> This is for flufftobers day 9, stars.

This isn’t exactly Bruce’s scene: dozens of people mingling about with a champagne glass in hands, buzzing around him, all partaking in small talk while soft jazz music plays in the background. It isn’t irritating, exactly—to be quite honest, Bruce’s been to worst places, he’s seen himself in far more unpleasant situations—, but the fact stands that he has no idea how to act when a supermodel approaches him and asks how is he finding the party, or when a millionaire asks him a too personal question about how it feels to be the Hulk.

He stammers an answer to the first—and she smiles at him, sharp and vicious, which makes Bruce feel like he’s  _ prey _ despite the fact that he could oh so easily turn into a monster and break her neck—and coolly interrupts the other, saying he sees a friend that he needs to greet, before walking away. 

He has really seen a friend—Tony’s currently talking to a couple of people, a well-cut suit complimenting his shape and a media grin on his face that hasn’t wavered once, fingers aptly holding his champagne glass, still half-full. He looks right at home, and, in a way—Bruce thinks—, he is. Bruce doesn’t go up and greet him, however: he doesn’t wish to bother him or make him look bad by committing a faux-pass in front of people who make more money in a month than Bruce’s had his entire life.

He goes out, instead, into the balcony—which is thankfully still empty. It’s a beautiful night, if a little too cold, but at this point in time he doesn’t really care. He’s more than willing to deal with the cold if that means he has a bit of peace and quiet, a bit of silence.

He distracts himself with watching the people come and go, on the ground—shiny dresses and dark suits, drunk and sober, accompanied and alone. He tries to guess who is gonna get laid tonight and who’s gonna wake up with a hangover, who’s gonna make the news the next day and who’s gonna lie to their wife. He loses track of time, eventually, up until the point he feels the warmth of a person beside him.

He looks—half prepared to give up on this spot and go back to the party, sorely disappointed, but then he sees it’s Tony, and it’s fine. Tony’s fine.  

“Hey,” Tony says. He leans against the rail, body still turned towards the building, where the party is happening. He looks very much put together, still, suit unwrinkled, tie in place. Bruce, in contrast, has already loosened his, has messed up his hair by taking his glasses out of his face.

“Having fun?” Bruce asks. It’s half a joke, half an honest question. He thinks he knows what Tony might answer, though after seeing him look so at ease amongst all these people, he wonders.

Tony laughs. “God, no.”

“Yeah,” Bruce sighs. He turns, too, towards the party. He can still hear the jazz playing, from where he is, the buzzing of voices. Time and again, Bruce can make out giggles or particular words as people walk past the doors to the balcony. Nothing about that interests him more than the person beside him, so he turns to Tony, instead. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Tony laughs again. There’s a soft look to his face that makes Bruce think  _ God, he’s so attractive it hurts _ . He is. Pale skin under the moon, stars reflected on his eyes, head inclined to the side so he can look at Bruce from the position he’s in. There’s nothing and no one else around, and the weight of Tony’s undivided attention is heavy on his shoulders. It’s not a bad thing.

“Years of practice, Bruce.  _ Years _ .”

“That doesn’t sound very fun.”

Tony shakes his head. “No.”

There’s silence, then, but it’s the good kind of silence. Bruce came into the balcony for some quiet, and he’s actually pretty sure Tony’s here for the exact same reason—he can’t really fathom the quantity of people Tony must’ve talked to, tonight. Dozens. Hundreds. Everyone, maybe—he wouldn’t put it past him. Tony’s never been one to do anything by halves, after all.

“It’s a beautiful night,” Tony says eventually. He’s looking up, now, at the stars. There’s a look to his face Bruce can’t quite read. “Humanity sucks, you know? I was in there and I kept thinking, none of these people I’m talking to are  _ good _ people. They lie and cheat and waste money on frivolous things. But then I’m out here with you and  _ it’s such a beautiful night _ , it almost makes it worth it. Everything.”

Bruce reads between the lines. He hears what Tony isn’t saying.

“We don’t do this because they’re worth saving,” he says.

Tony shakes his head. Looks back at him, at Bruce.  _ Dangerous _ , Bruce thinks. And  _ God, his eyes _ . “We don’t, do we?”

It’s Bruce’s turn to look up to the stars. He doesn’t think he can keep looking at Tony’s face and Tony’s eyes and Tony’s lips and control his impulses—he’s sure if he keeps staring at him he’ll do something stupid like kissing him senseless.

He shouldn’t, he  _ shouldn’t _ .

“You know-” Bruce starts, only to stop himself when he hears the sound of the doors closing. He looks back down just in time to catch Tony with a mischievous smile, barricading the doors with his body so no one can open them.

 

There’s no really sensible choice other than chasing the mischievous smile out of his face.


	5. heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> proof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp. i will eventually finish this up. dunno when. maybe with a bunch of little drabbles. but it will. get. finished.

The first time Bruce stumbles upon it, he does a double take. Walks past it, reads it as an afterthought, then has to go back and check it out again. It says:  _ proof that Tony Stark has a heart _ . It strikes him as an odd thing, an odd writing—every living human being has a heart, and to not have one is to be dead. 

He realizes, only later, as he waters the begonias Tony had gifted him, that the writing was probably not meant quite that literally.

It’s weird—so weird—, because the very first words Tony had told him were compliments, and Bruce hadn’t heard any in a long time. It’s weird because they work so well together, and because Tony isn’t afraid of him, and because there is a clear effort on his part in making Bruce happy and more comfortable in his own skin.

Tony is, after all, the only person not to blame him for the Hulk.

The point is, Bruce doesn’t need empty words on a glass case to make him notice that Tony has a heart—he has seen proof of it everywhere else. 

  
  
  


(He realizes later it might be a reminder for Tony, not other people. 

He promises himself that from then on he won’t let Tony forget).


End file.
